


Shadows in the Night

by topazwinters



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topazwinters/pseuds/topazwinters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John happens upon a sleeping Sherlock and learns that apparently he is not the only one who has nightmares.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first venture into the realm of (writing) fanfiction, after ogling at, giggling over, sobbing through, and bemoaning the direction my life is taking because of the multitude of awesome fanfics other authors have written. Hello, my fellow Sherlockian writers. I do hope you enjoy my meagre attempt at joining your awesomeness.
> 
> [Note: Please do comment and tell me what you think of this fic, whether you like it or hate it or think it's kinda-sorta-okay. All your support seriously means the world to me, and I'm always looking for ways to improve.]

John Watson never should have found out.

Actually, John probably never _would_ have found out, had it not been for Dancing with the Stars.

John doesn’t know what the hell Sherlock sees in dancing shows – because, come _on,_ he’s _Sherlock,_ and the probability of his being able to dance even a lick is around nil – but nevertheless, every Tuesday they’re not out chasing criminals, at 10 PM sharp Sherlock turns on the telly and there it is. John’s learned not to question why whenever _he_ turns on a show Sherlock loudly deduces every single detail of the actors’ sex lives, ensuring that John never wants to watch said show again, and yet Sherlock is completely and utterly immersed in this random one on a topic he probably has no interest in whatsoever.

Today, John looks over from where he’s writing his blog and Sherlock’s hands are steepled underneath his chin, his eyes intense as ever as he stares at the telly. John shakes his head and yawns, shutting his laptop as he clicks _Publish Post_ and knowing that he’ll never really understand his mad flatmate.

“Off to bed then,” he announces, but he may as well be talking to empty air, because Sherlock shows no sign of having heard. John stands up. As he’s about to walk to his room and shut the door, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock, who looks even more pale and gaunt than usual. Dark purple bags sit heavily under his eyes, and John stifles a sigh.

“Try and get some sleep tonight, all right?” he says. “You look…” And he trails off, because it doesn’t exactly take the world’s only consulting detective to deduce that Sherlock looks like hell, and it’s probably mostly because of lack of sleep and food.

John shuffles over to his bedroom, and with one last look at the still-motionless Sherlock he shuts the door.

It’s hours later, he thinks, that he’s woken up once more. Oddly, it’s not by the usual 4 AM crooning violin performance or burning smell wafting from the kitchen or deep voice demanding that he come look at the mould growing on the feet in the fridge.

It’s by the telly.

For a second John’s disoriented, because he knows Sherlock never, ever watches the box – unless you count Dancing with the Stars, of course, but that must have been over _hours_ ago. With a long-suffering sigh, he pushes off the duvet, gets to his feet, and opens his bedroom door to deal with whatever crisis he’s sure is going to arise sometime soon, if it hasn’t occurred already.

The sight that awaits him in the living room makes his breath catch in his throat.

The telly is indeed still on – the presenter is gibbering away about a discounted price at some store (“… you heard me right, folks, a staggering _ten per cent_ off _all our electronics!_ Take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime deal _right now!”);_ but this, even as he almost robotically picks up the remote control and silences the set, is not what he is looking at.

No, it’s Sherlock.

He’s sprawled on the couch, still wearing that ridiculous crimson dressing gown he insists on donning no matter what activity he’s embarking upon – even now, John can see the hole in the left sleeve, where Sherlock accidentally burned through the fabric while performing a particularly messy experiment. The man’s curls are wayward and unkempt, bouncing across his forehead; his face is pallid and his hands are curled at his sides.

Also, his eyes are closed.

As the realisation hits John, a second one barrels after it: he’s never actually seen Sherlock sleep before. Hell, he can hardly go into Sherlock’s bedroom without his flatmate practically pushing him out, even though as far as John has seen, there’s nothing really to be ashamed of – Sherlock does all his more dubious experiments on the kitchen counter, anyway. But this is an entirely new revelation, and John recognises automatically that if Sherlock knew about it, he’d be appalled that John is still standing here, stock-still, gazing at his quiet figure.

It’s this knowledge that makes John turn away – almost regretfully, really, because he’s never seen Sherlock with all his walls down like this, and he doesn’t know if he ever will again. Somehow, this feels like something sacred, something he should treasure.

But he’s not some sort of stalker. He should give Sherlock his privacy.

Just as John reaches his bedroom door, the rich baritone makes him whirl around again, his eyes wide, as if he’s been caught doing something unforgivable instead of just checking on his friend.

That’s when John realises that Sherlock’s not actually awake. He’s talking – but in his sleep.

Every single atom of self-control flies out of John. He practically dashes across the room, because damn it, it’s one thing to see Sherlock sleep, but quite another to hear him _talk._ This, John has to hear, and it’s not just so he can tease him about it in the morning, but also because – and he’ll admit it to himself – he’s curious. Apparently the prat doesn’t even shut up when he _sleeps,_ but what could possibly be coming out of his mouth?

Whatever Sherlock had said previously was incomprehensible, but John has no doubt it’s something completely embarrassing – because, really, it’s _Sherlock,_ and God only knows what he dreams about. John’s imagination is running wild; he’s almost smiling as he thinks of what Sherlock’s reaction is going to be tomorrow morning when he tells him.

But that, of course, is before he looks down at Sherlock’s face.

All the amusement drains out of him.

The detective’s expression is contorted into one that John has never before seen on his face and would be quite content to never see again. He looks like he’s been ripped apart and glued back together crooked, like he’s being put through some abysmal pain that will never end, like his entire world is crashing down around his knees and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He looks like he’s being skinned and turned into shoes, like everyone he loves has suddenly turned against him, like nothing on this earth is ever, ever going to be all right and no one will ever convince him otherwise because he’s Sherlock Holmes and he knows better, only this time knowing is not enough and he can’t change a thing even as he watches frozen as all his worst nightmares come true…

And John _knows_ Sherlock, knows him better than anyone else on this planet, knows him inside and out, almost better than he knows himself and still he has never, ever seen that expression his face and it makes him want to either scream or cry or punch someone for hurting Sherlock enough for him to look like this.

And that’s before the talking starts again.

At first it’s soft. John hardly hears it, so fixated is he on Sherlock’s face.

“No.”

“Sorry, what?” he replies automatically, then feels like a fool, because of course Sherlock is sleeping and cannot hear him. He moves closer, trying to distinguish Sherlock’s nearly unintelligible speech.

As if replying to John: _“No.”_

This time it’s clear as a bell, and John looks up, confused.

“No, no – _please –”_

John doesn’t know what to do. Sherlock’s hands are reaching out, grasping at nothing, the look on his face even worse than before, and John is just sitting there like a bloody idiot because he _does not know what to do._

“Stop it – stop, no – please –”

And the look on Sherlock’s face is killing him, so he does the only thing he can think of doing, which is probably a stupid thing to do anyway, but it comes instinctively – he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand.

Before he can rethink the situation – or wonder what in hell he thinks he’s doing – Sherlock is grasping onto his hand like a lifeline, and all he can do is hope that it’s enough.

And apparently it is.

Gradually, the cries quiet, and – to John’s immense relief – Sherlock’s expression relaxes once more into the poker face John knows so well. He keeps hold of Sherlock’s hand until it goes limp, and then releases the long fingers and sits there for a few minutes with his head in his hands, grappling with what he’s just seen.

In the end he goes into Sherlock’s bedroom and pulls the duvet and pillow off the bed. After draping the quilt over his flatmate, he rearranges Sherlock’s head on the pillow until he looks a little more comfortable.

Then, before he can stop himself, he places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s now-smooth forehead and runs his fingers through the impossibly soft, dark curls. Sherlock’s eyelids do not flutter. His breathing does not change.

John stands, albeit reluctantly. On his way back to his room, he looks back at Sherlock more times than is probably strictly necessary. His heart is heavy as he closes the door; he does not sleep well at all.

In the morning, Sherlock calls John a bumbling idiot, shoots a bullet into the sugar bowl, and complains about his coffee being too cold.

Neither of them says a word about last night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John grapples with guilt and a minor fight ensues.

Sometimes, John is absolutely sure that Sherlock is about twelve years old.

Hell, he even  _looks_ like a twelve-year old. Everything, from the bottle green eyes to the mussed and unkempt curls to the pale white skin, seems to suggest that the essence of Sherlock is hiding within a younger body. Not the mention those cheekbones – ridiculous, to say the least. Before Sherlock, John never would have imagined that it’d be physically possible to have a facial structure like his.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asks impatiently, and John snaps back into reality.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, confused.

Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed beneath his overly large goggles; he’s doing another one of his experiments, this one involving an oozing, neon green chemical obtained from Molly that John is almost certain is illegal in Britain.

“Do I have something on my face? Why do you keep  _staring_  at me?” It’s obvious that Sherlock is bothered by John’s thorough inspection of him, although John has no idea why he would be.

“Staring? I’m not… staring,” John insists now, fixing his eyes back on the newspaper in his hands and hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. “Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“You  _are,”_ Sherlock says, but he says it under his breath and John knows that he is more interested in the banana smell wafting from one of his graduated cylinders than any reply John could give.

At any rate, even if Sherlock pushed the matter John wouldn’t know what to say.  He can’t seem to get the events of last night out of his head – and he had lain awake long enough, turning it over and over in his brain so that if Sherlock’s words were not imprinted on the back of his mind before, they most certainly are now.

And what bothers John the most is that he’s seen that look on Sherlock’s face before, even though he’d never have imagined it in the shadows of the previous night. But now he knows, and it almost physically pains him to realise that the truth is, when Sherlock is conscious it’s always been John who causes that horrible look to pass over his face, if only for a split second, if only with much less intensity.

_Colleague._

_I’d stick to ice._

_You… you machine._

“Goddamn it, John!”

Too late, John realises that he’s staring at Sherlock once more. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, trying to placate Sherlock before he either starts shouting or sulks into his room and doesn’t come out again for another week.

“Why do you keep  _doing_  that?” This time Sherlock’s eyes are level with John’s, all interest in the banana-smelling acid lost, and John knows he can’t escape the question. He clears his throat and looks away from the probing gaze, sharp with the cold edge of deduction.

“No reason,” John says, knowing that the offhand tone he’d meant for it to have is completely lost under Sherlock’s penetrating eyes. He feels strangely naked, disarmed, like he’s drowning in the depths of Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock can read everything he’s trying to keep from him at a glance.

Which, come to think of it, he probably can.

“You’re lying,” his flatmate says, right on cue. He runs his hand through his hair in that frustrated motion John’s come to know so well. And there it is – another thing for him to think about. What exactly possessed him to card his hands through Sherlock’s dark locks yesterday?

Because it’s not as if he’d needed to do it. Sherlock had been sleeping fine by then. He wouldn’t have fared worse had John kept his hands to himself. And some of Sherlock’s logic is rubbing off on John, apparently, because all he can think is that he  _knew_ that touching Sherlock last night would not help his flatmate in the least, and so therefore he must have been doing it for himself. Not to mention how  _right_ it felt, as if it was something John did every single day, which is absurd, of course, and –

“It’s a woman, isn’t it.”

He’s zoned out again, he realises with chagrin.

“What? A – a woman? What are you –”

“Kendra’s sleeping with the bloke in 221D, by the way.”

John sighs. “Sherlock, Kendra and I broke up two weeks ago.” Then he pauses and adds, “And besides, you’re wrong.”

“No, she really is. If you don’t believe me, go knock on the door. He’s a large bloke, bit of a beer gut, pathetic attempt at a moustache –”

John closes his eyes and reminds himself that jumping halfway across the room and strangling Sherlock probably would not be in his best interests. “No, Sherlock. Not about that.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles into his rarely glimpsed confused expression. “What?”

“I wasn’t thinking about a woman. Besides, even if I was, it’s not as if you’d let me go out with her.” John tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he’s not sure if he succeeds, remembering all of the long-anticipated dates Sherlock has so unceremoniously ruined.

“What, then?” Sherlock’s deserted the neon chemical, and John tries not to raise his eyebrows as his flatmate flops onto the couch, eyes fixed on his. It’s not often that Sherlock abandons an experiment, and even less so for something as mundane as – well, as mundane as John. He wonders if this is the right time to tell Sherlock about last night. The guilt has been eating away at him all day – he’s not used to keeping secrets from the detective, especially since most times Sherlock deduces whatever he’s trying to hide at a moment’s glance. But Sherlock hasn’t even mentioned it. John isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Nothing much,” John says, clearing his throat and looking down at the coffee table to avoid Sherlock’s somewhat discomfiting observation.

“No. It’s quite important.”

“What is?” John asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s complete and utter idiocy, and again John has to resist the urge commit a highly justifiable murder. “Whatever has been making you stare infuriatingly at me for the past half an hour. The thing you’re thinking about. The one you refuse to tell me.”

“Sherlock, I have an idea. Why don’t you piss off and mind your own business, for once in your life?”

The fear of being discovered is making John irritable, pushing his patience to its limits. As the words slip out of his mouth, he tastes the bitter tang of overwhelming sarcasm, along with a nearly forgotten memory he immediately wishes he hadn’t dredged up.

_What do people usually say?_

_Piss off._

As the words slip out of his mouth, he tastes the bitter tang of overwhelming sarcasm. He automatically looks up and just catches the tail end of Sherlock’s reaction: a look not unlike the one John stayed up till ungodly hours last night thinking about. Cringing internally, John wishes he could stuff the sentence back into his mouth. In this moment, he hates himself unreasonably for hurting Sherlock.

But he doesn’t let it through. “It’s nothing,” he repeats gruffly, and grabs his coat before Sherlock can reply.

“Where are you going?” The detective’s voice is carefully measured, impassive. It’s the voice he uses when he’s talking to people he doesn’t trust.

_Out. I need some air._

John pushes the memory out of his mind, forcing himself to disregard how the last time he left Baker Street in a huff the entire flat was nearly blown to smithereens. Instead he latches onto the first excuse he can find. “I’ll get milk. We need some more.”

Then he pushes open the door, walks down the stairs, and steps into the crisp autumn air – 17 steps and a looming secret he wishes he could delete from his hard drive, the only barriers separating him and the consulting detective standing in 221B.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an old acquaintance and tries to escape Sherlock's never-ending presence.

“Black coffee,” John says. “Two sugars, please.”

He pays the barista and carries the steaming mug over to his favourite chair at the coffee shop – the one right next to the window. It’s a habit that’s been drilled into him by countless stakeouts, sitting in restaurants with Sherlock, listening to his flatmate shooting rapid-fire deductions his way while still keeping one eye on the window. And with Sherlock, half the fun of it is having an audience to praise him and tell him what a mastermind he is.

That’s where John comes in, of course.

Thinking of it, he’s surprised by how bitter he feels as he stares out at the bustling sidewalk. He’s long since accepted this role. Sherlock is the mad genius, and he is the only slightly less insane sidekick who runs after Sherlock, apologising for the messes he makes and trying as best he can to clean them up before he is summoned once more. He’s utterly expendable; he knows that.

He takes a sip of his coffee and almost gags. Staring down at the dark liquid, he realises the problem: he’s ordered Sherlock’s coffee, not the kind he takes.

_Sherlock doesn’t follow me everywhere._

Apparently he does, John thinks as he stands up, leaving his mug at the table – perhaps not in body, but in spirit.

He walks out of the café and stands on the sidewalk, gazing at the passers by streaming past him. He doesn’t know what he’s so worried about, or why Sherlock’s nightmares have invoked these emotions in him. Perhaps he’d truly believed that Sherlock was as invincible as he’d always tried to persuade others. It bothers John, that he is so shaken by this evidence to the contrary. Of _course_ he knows that Sherlock is human, just like everyone else. Of course he knows that his friend has a multitude of flaws. Of course he does.

He sighs. He is fluctuating between anger at Sherlock and at himself, on Sherlock’s behalf, when the whole purpose of this venture was to escape the detective for a little while. _Obviously that was a futile undertaking,_ he thinks ruefully, checking his watch. He’s only been out for an hour, and already his resolve is crumbling.

So what is he going to do about Sherlock’s nightmares?

He knows that this is really the question he’s been trying to avoid, the question that he’s not sure how to answer. He’s unused to doing this – having an unresolvable problem, one that he’s stumped by. Usually whenever that happens, Sherlock is hovering behind him, ready to swoop in and explain.

But this is something John has to figure out by himself, and so far he is completely failing.

“John?”

He looks up, and for a second he doesn’t recognise the woman standing in front of him. Then he remembers: she’s one of the girls who trained with him at Bart’s, years ago. He searches the recesses of his memory for her name, and finally comes up with _Eva._

“Eva!” he says, trying to act like he remembers her as well as she obviously does him. He can’t deny that she is attractive – flowing blonde hair, large hazel eyes, and not a bad body either. Still, somehow he can’t really concentrate on that. All he can think about is Sherlock, the look on his face at 4 AM the previous night, and how to prevent it from happening again.

“How’ve you been?” she asks conversationally, smiling to reveal a straight row of blindingly white teeth.

“I… well, great, actually,” John says, and is surprised to find that it is the truth, save for the last couple of days. “And you?”

Before Eva can answer, a man bumps into her and gives her a glare before moving on. She raises one eyebrow at his retreating back, and John gives her a somewhat forced grin. “Shall we go inside?” she asks, turning to him again. “You know, before we meet any more of…?” She gestures to the ever-receding man.

“Sure,” John says, even though suddenly all he really wants to do is go back home. But this is not like him at all, and he forces himself to push Sherlock out of his mind. He’s been spending too much time with the man, he tells himself; he needs to get out more, talk to other people.

As they walk back into the café, Eva orders her coffee and turns to John expectantly. “Black coffee,” he says, even though he barely restrains himself from adding in “and two sugars, as well”.

They sit down – not at the window seat, but at one of the seats closer to the interior of the coffee shop. John keeps the conversation centred on Eva, and her easy smile and wry sense of humour should make it easier, he knows, but all the same he’s left feeling stiff and achingly lonely. It’s because of Sherlock, and of _course_ it is, he thinks with a stab of annoyance, because isn’t everything about Sherlock these days?

“Heard you were stationed in Afghanistan,” Eva tells him, and he comes back to the present.

“Yeah, it was…” John says, leaving the end of the sentence hanging in the air, because really, what is there to say about it?

Eva’s eyes are filled with a sympathy John doesn’t feel like he deserves. “What happened?”

“Invalidated. Shot in the shoulder,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not a big deal, really. I’m fine now.”

“How’s it been, then? Civilian life, and all.”

“Not as hard as one would think,” John tells her truthfully. “I’ve adjusted. Got a flatmate now. Working at a local surgery. Life goes on.”

But at the word ‘flatmate’, Eva’s eyes narrow as if remembering something. “Hey, your flatmate – what’s his name?”

John gives her a tired smile, and it feels like he’s just repeating the same words he’s said to countless other people. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You might have heard of him – he’s in the papers quite a bit. Detective. He solves crimes and stuff.”

“Right!” Eva’s smiles in understanding. “Knew I’d heard the name.” She lifts her fingers into air quotes. “‘Hat-man and Robin.’ So you help him?”

“I guess. A little. Not really. I mean he’s the one who does most of the –”

“That’s not what the newspapers seem to think,” Eva says, her eyes twinkling, and John has to push back an ironic laugh at her scepticism in Sherlock’s ability to solve crimes without John.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” he tells her in a chiding tone.

“So what’s he like to live with?” she asks, and for a second he’s disoriented at the complete change of tone.

_Hellish, I imagine._

“I’m never bored,” he says.

Eva throws back her head and laughs. “Really?” she says, grinning at him. “In a good way, or a bad way?”

“Both. He does the most disgusting experiments. You can’t imagine how rude he is. He plays the violin at ungodly hours. He puts body parts in the refrigerator. He’s ruined every single date I’ve ever tried to go on. He’s cold and heartless and all he cares about is his massive intellect. The only reason he keeps me around is so that he can have somebody to fawn over him.”

John draws a breath, almost smiling at the horrified expression on Eva’s face. “But… but at the same time, he’s…” And he trails off, because how can he explain the fact that he’s laughed more with Sherlock than with everyone else in his life, combined? How can he rationalise the fact that although Sherlock sometimes doesn’t know his boundaries, he’s always completely, brutally, beautifully honest? How can he talk about the wonder it is to dash through the streets of London and know that he could die at any moment and still be happier than he’s ever been? How can he describe the hidden pain that lies behind Sherlock’s flawless mask? How can he tell her how broken he was after Afghanistan, how that bullet pierced a lot more than his shoulder, and how Sherlock came along and somehow fixed him?

So he says nothing, because he instinctively knows that Eva will not understand, and although she has been lovely, she is just another person who will look at him and call him mad behind his back for staying with Sherlock; and because he cannot explain to her his motives, she will automatically label him as the unfortunate victim in their friendship – even though there is so much more than that.

Eva smiles at him with something like pity. “Oh. It sounds… interesting.”

Before he can reply – although he’s not exactly sure what he would have said – his phone chimes with a text alert.

_She’s married. The ring is in her purse. SH_

And another, thirty seconds afterwards:

_221B. Bring the milk. SH_

Automatically, John’s eyes go to Eva’s ring finger. He has no idea _how_ the hell Sherlock could have known, but sure enough, there is a barely-visible tan line around the finger.

“Your girlfriend?” Eva asks, and he looks at her with new eyes now that he knows that she is interested in him – enough to cheat on her husband for him, apparently.

“Sorry, what?” he asks.

“The person who just texted you.”

“What – oh, oh no. That was… a friend.” He’s not sure why he’s not telling the entire truth, but he goes on his gut instinct.

“Really?” she says. “Your eyes… they lit up when you read it, so I just assumed –”

John feels himself blushing. “Nope. Actually, I have to go… something’s come up.” 

He stands up and they say their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch. John steps back into the cool air with a new sense of purpose. His steps are firm, bold, as he walks down the sidewalk, and he tries to tell himself that this is most certainly _not_ because the nightmares combined with his encounter with Eva have left him wanting to see Sherlock’s face even more, to somehow reassure himself that the detective is all right; and even more than this, that is not because he is tired of trying to stay away from his friend.

He miserably fails, but somehow he’s not as annoyed about this as he should be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new case. _Finally._

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock says.

John walks over to the refrigerator, looking sideways to see his flatmate stretched out luxuriously on the couch, hands steepled underneath his chin. “Yeah, hello to you too,” he calls over his shoulder. “So, are you going to tell me how you knew?”

“Hm?” Sherlock asks, his eyes snapping open and his neck craning around the couch to catch a glimpse of John.

“About Eva being married,” John clarifies as he unloads the milk into the fridge. “Shame, really,” he muses out loud. “She was nice, but I’m not interested in being the other man.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks into that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk, the one that he _knows_ drives John insane. “I have my ways,” he says enigmatically.

John rolls his eyes. “Can it,” he tells Sherlock sharply. “So why exactly am I here?”

At the words, Sherlock seems to come to life. He springs off the couch and, in one fluid motion, climbs over the coffee table to get at his coat. “Lestrade called. We’ve been summoned.”

John can’t help the grin that creeps up his face at the very mention of a case – they’ve gone a week without one (unless you count the newlyweds shot on their honeymoon, which John doesn’t, since Sherlock solved it in ten seconds over the phone – it was the jealous ex-husband). “What is it this time, then?” he asks as Sherlock leads the way down the 17 steps, coat swirling around him, and they climb into the waiting cab.

“Murder, John,” Sherlock tells him in a voice that _really_ should not be so excited, and his eyes are shining as he gives the bemused cab driver the address. He turns back to John. “Good old fashioned locked-room murder – god, haven’t had one of those in awhile, have we?” And before John can answer, Sherlock is going off on one of his crime-talking jags, where he speaks almost too fast for John to understand and makes lots of exaggerated hand motions and his eyes are alight with a fire that John is perpetually afraid he will burn himself in.

But Sherlock is so _happy_ like this, just sitting in the back of a cab on a Wednesday morning talking a mile a minute, even though they haven’t even gotten to the crime scene yet – and John finds himself smiling along, because it’s too easy to get caught up in the thrill of the chase when it’s with Sherlock, when it’s just the two of them against the rest of the world, and he can forget the unease of last night and focus on _right now,_ on Sherlock’s hands dancing in front of him and his low, baritone voice already speculating, diving into theory after theory, and John settles back and just listens, perfectly content.

Sherlock practically leaps out of the cab once they reach the crime scene – some old Victorian mansion; John doesn’t recognise it – leaving John to pay for the cab, as usual, the prat. But John can’t be too angry because the exhilaration is already crowding out everything as he throws a couple of bills at the driver and clambers after Sherlock.

He watches as his flatmate strides to where Donovan is standing, staring at the two of them petulantly. “Took you long enough, _freak,”_ she says to Sherlock, and John can’t help the stab of pride he feels as his friend simply turns to her and says smoothly, not even missing a beat, “Wouldn’t want to deprive you and Anderson of your time together, _Sally,”_ and sweeps through the door.

John catches up to Sherlock in the house, only stopping to give the fuming Donovan a mildly apologetic look. Lestrade is standing there along with one other young man that John doesn’t recognise; he looks nervous and jumpy and his eyes narrow when Sherlock and John come in, but he stays silent. There’s a dead woman on the floor as well, surrounded by blood that has long since dried. She’s older – late 60s, John would guess – with salt-and-pepper hair still tied in a bun, and Rigor Mortis has begun to set into her stiffening limbs. She’s lying on her back and a knife is buried hilt-deep in her chest; her eyes are wide open, face contorted with the terror of something or someone that Sherlock and John are here to find.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “John. Good to see you.” He goes on to explain the case – that this woman sprawled on the floor, Bethany Kerrigan, was found dead in her home around four hours ago; she’d been living alone for two years, ever since her husband died and left her nothing but this huge, drafty mansion. The cleaning lady, Lestrade says, was the one who found her – no prints, locked in her room with a knife driven through her chest and sticking out of her back, and an arcane symbol painted in blood on the wall.

The whole case seems quite gruesome to John – using a dead woman’s blood as ink is really going a bit too far, if you ask him – but Sherlock, of course, is perfectly at home. He’s studying the symbol on the wall right now; it’s quite simple, really, just a B with an up arrow through it and three crude dots next to it. The blood has dried dark brown, dripping down the wall, and John watches as Sherlock swiftly brings out his phone and starts photographing the symbol.

“It’s a gang sign,” he says abruptly, his voice tight and focused, all the excitement from just moments before lost in the concentration of the blood on the wall.

“Which one?” Lestrade asks. “There are dozens in this area, I mean – we could ask around if you like, but –”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, glaring scathingly at Lestrade and effectively cutting him off short. “That won’t be necessary,” he says coldly. “I believe I know which one.” He doesn’t elaborate, though, and John allows himself a secret little smile, because he knows Sherlock well enough by now to realise when the detective is simply putting on an _I’m-so-high-and-mighty_ front in order to shut Lestrade up. He’ll tease Sherlock about it later, but right now, John turns to the DI. “Anything stolen?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Lestrade says. “We’re thinking it’s a revenge killing –”

“Definitely,” Sherlock confirms.

“So, yeah,” Lestrade says after a moment of bemused silence. “Revenge, then. But who would want revenge on a little old lady? We talked to the neighbours – they said she was always so sweet. Baked apple pie whenever anyone had a birthday – would hand-deliver it to them, apparently. She wasn’t the same, though, after her husband died…” He trails off, then murmurs under his breath, “Shame, really.”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock says abruptly. “We’re going.”

“Wait a second,” John says, because they’ve only been at the crime scene for, what, twenty minutes? But Sherlock is already gliding down the stairs in that exasperating way he has, not even looking behind to see if John is following, and John has no choice but to trail after him.

But then he pauses, waiting for Sherlock to move out of earshot before he darts up the stairs once more. “Hey, Greg,” he says, and Lestrade turns from where he’s been gazing pensively at the body, to look at John.

“Found something?” the DI asks.

“No, no, it’s not about – uh, actually, it’s…” John looks pointedly at the young man standing next to Lestrade.

“Rowland,” the DI says, taking the hint, “Go get Anderson for me, will you? He needs to take a look at the body, since our dear friend Mr Holmes didn’t seem to care for it.” There’s just a hint of sarcasm in his voice but John lets it slide, even though if it were anyone else but Lestrade he’d be furiously defending Sherlock. The man – Rowland – seems almost surprised to have Lestrade addressing him, but all the same, he nods and almost runs away in search of Anderson.

Then John is alone in a room with a dead woman and a DI, and he takes a deep breath because he isn’t sure whether this is truly the right thing to do or whether Sherlock would be appalled if he shared it with someone else. But Lestrade is the only person who might understand, who knows Sherlock almost as well as John does, so John steels himself even though every atom in his body is screaming at him not to betray Sherlock in this way. “Greg,” he says.

“Yeah.” Lestrade is gazing at him with something like concern, as if he’s wondering whether John is going to be sick. Hell, John _feels_ like he is, like this is so wrong of him to bring it up, and he wonders whether he should bail out. 

Right on cue: “You all right, mate?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, just fine. Hey, listen, Greg…” John swallows, plants his feet, squares his shoulders. “It’s about Sherlock. I think he’s…”

“John?"

“I think he’s – uh –”

“Spit it out, mate,” Lestrade says, and John knows it’s meant to be teasing, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to get the words out of his mouth.

He’s never seen himself as a coward, but right now he most certainly feels like one. “Never mind,” he rushes out. “It’s not important. I should – I should probably go catch up with him.” And he turns on his heel and almost sprints down the stairs.

He can hear Lestrade’s confused exclamation behind him, but John is already wrenching open the door to the cab and looking into Sherlock’s surprised face. “Sorry,” he says.

Then they are pulling away from the Victorian mansion. Sherlock does not ask for any further explanation, and John does not offer – but even so, John can feel the consulting detective’s eyes on him, sharp and knowing and ever mysterious, as they drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this kind of took forever to post. It was meant to be more of a writer's block exercise, but people keep asking me to post it and now I'm kind of excited about it sooooo, it'll probably be up more often.
> 
> For those who are interested: yes, the street gang in this fic is real. I won't give much more than that away, as we'll discover more in the next chapters, but every one of the identifiers is nonfictional except for one: they are based in Los Angeles, not London.


End file.
